"What do you see?" The lieutenant cleans his glasses, squinting at the shapes in the mud.

A leader like Titus doesn't let one of his guys out of sight easily -- especially at a time like this.

I should have gotten this earlier.

Better late than never, detective. The whole world is dark and the tracks burn in it with strange beauty.

Not now. [Leave.]

Go over them one by one.

1) Standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 46.

2) Standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 44.

3) Hobnailed work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 43.

4) Standard work boot, no 45 or 46?

Count more.

5) Another standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 44.

6) An aberration -- light as air. Even pace. Same make of boot, but no 41.

Male or female?

Impossible to tell. Could also have been an adolescent. The gait is undeveloped.

I'm pretty good at this, ain't I?

You're not bad. It's as if the whole world darkens, everything else has a thin film of unimportance on it -- and the tracks burn in the middle of it, in a strange, beautiful way.

Count the rest.

7) The glowing outline of a standard work boot, no 46. But the imprints are twice as deep as the others -- the weight exceeds 200 kilograms.

8) And yet another standard work boot, no 44. There's an aberration in the pattern of the sole, however. The right sole is smoother, more worn.

"How many?" The lieutenant has been tracking your eyes' movements.

"Eight."

"I was pretty off then. I counted 20."

"The same guys are going back and forth."

"I never got the hang of it. Hyperopia." He points to his glasses. "Any of them look familiar? Are these the Hardies?"

"I never got the hang of it. Hyperopia." He points to his glasses. "Do you see anything out of the ordinary?"

"Way off. Waaaaaay."

"Mhm." He takes his glasses off and cleans them.

This is not a man easily toyed with.

Say nothing.

"Four hundred million."

"Mhm." He looks to the holes in the mud. "I counted twenty. I take it it's less than that."

Say nothing.

"I assumed you were counting."

"Okay, there are eight."

"I'm not."

"Very well."

Lieutenant Kitsuragi does not appreciate you withholding case specific information.

Keep it to yourself.

Silence. The lieutenant takes his glasses off and cleans them.

Wait, which is it?

You don't know. It's a miracle you can tell the prints apart as it is. The cold must have preserved them.

Sitting at a desk, Lieutenant Kitsuragi fiddles with a pen, then writes something on the paper in front of him. He shouldn't be doing that, he should be here discussing the footprints.

[Leave.]

There are several footprints in the mud, left by work boots: anywhere from 6 to 12 pairs have walked here.

Get an exact count.

Maybe more than 12? No. Eight pairs of boots have shuffled back and forth in the mud.

Wow. Still not doing it. You're bad at this.

"This seems really important. Tracks on the scene. And I can't read them at all, lieutenant!"

"Don't beat yourself down -- neither can I. We'll have another look later."

(Whisper to yourself) "Why is this so complicated? I keep failing..."

Maybe you keep failing because you suck?

Swallow it. Just go on.

What else is there to do?

What do you think you are, a super-detective? You're hung over, these are just dents in the mud. No pattern emerges for the time being.

What kind of boots?

Heavy worker's boots with reinforced toes and hobnails. All over the yard.

Isn't this something an industrial worker would wear?

"Lieutenant -- workers' boot tracks." (Point to them.)

"Noted." The lieutenant takes out his little notebook.